


Next Year in Hawaii

by brandywine



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandywine/pseuds/brandywine
Summary: It was Lance's idea to host Christmas dinner this year.It was Fate's idea to make him regret it.
Relationships: Lance Bass/Chris Kirkpatrick
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	Next Year in Hawaii

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensnest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensnest/gifts).



> For Pensnest, whose prompt was: _Domesticity, Trickyfish-style. Whatever that means._

“Your sisters are hitting on Justin. Like, all of them. At the same time.”

“Ugh.” Chris doesn’t even look up from his brown sugar-honey reduction. “Vultures. Can’t even let a man enjoy his ‘nog in peace. Should we turn the hose on them?”

“Nah, don’t bother. He’s loving it.”

“Oh. Good. Hose him down, too, then. Hose everyone.” He twirls the wooden spoon in his left hand like it’s a baton. “Hose party. Everyone gets the hose.” He does it again. It’s a pretty impressive move.

“God, y’know, I almost wish you were being serious right now.”

“Of course I’m being serious. Who doesn’t love a lively Christmas hosing?”

Lance knows he has no right to complain. Not really. It was his idea to host Christmas dinner this year.

But then, it was fate’s idea to turn the whole thing into a blood-boiling stress nightmare.

It was supposed to be minimal. It was supposed to be manageable. Lance, Chris and their parents: five people in total. A ham, a couple of side dishes, no weird dietary restrictions, and everyone keeps their dignity.

Wham, bam, thank you, Santa.

And then it had ballooned. To the point where they’re now responsible for feeding Chris’s grandma, Chris’s grandma’s new boyfriend Barry, enough sisters to pull off one of those Sandra Bullock necklace heists, one yipping lapdog and three kids under ten years of age.

(Two of them are Lance’s nephews, and honestly? Lance has no idea who the third one belongs to, or even if it’s in the right apartment. At this point, he’s not sure he cares enough to ask.)

Justin’s here, too. And Lynn. Because they’re both newly single this December -- “Mother-son divorces!” they keep shouting in unison, like it’s the punchline to some fabulous joke and not the title card for a Jerry Springer episode -- and they’re sad. Too sad, apparently, to cook their own turkey, or pick up the phone and order a festive Christmas pizza or -- whatever. 

Whatever.

Every so often, Lynn raises her glass of eggnog high in the air and yells, “GIve us a song, baby!” Justin has obliged her every time. With carols, mostly, and in one memorable instance, a bafflingly slowed-down version of Bon Jovi’s Livin’ On a Prayer.

JC missed his flight home last night, leaving him with nowhere to be today, and Kelly has the girls this week, leaving Joey feeling lost and sorry for himself, so that’s two more place settings added and now Chris has been stuck in the kitchen for hours and Lance’s smile has become so brittle he’s scared it’s gonna fall off his face and shatter into shards.

Why’d he come in here, anyway? Oh, right. For extra napkins. No one asked for any, but they were his sole excuse for taking a three minute hosting break and he’ll be damned if he reappears without them and proves himself a liar.

He hugs Chris from behind and just kind of lingers for a minute. Actually, it’s less of a hug, more of a slump and lean, featuring arms.

Chris, for his part, reaches back with his free hand and wordlessly squeezes Lance’s ass. Lance doesn’t scold him, or even check to make sure his hand is clean, which is how he knows Christmas has broken him.

“Speaking of Christmas hoses,” Lance says, letting go and moving towards the cabinets. “I’m pretty sure my brother-in-law’s macking on JC. Macking hard.”

This time, Chris looks up. “Your creepily quiet, dangerously religious brother-in-law? Are we talking about the same guy here?”

Lance laughs. “Yup. Same guy. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. He just keeps on asking about JC’s workout routine and fiber intake and, God, I don’t even know. When I left the room, he was forcing JC to feel his bicep.”

Chris whistles, low and awed. “Jesus.”

“I know.” 

“Hell, I’m gonna need me some photographic evidence of all this. Where’s your phone? Get back out there and start documenting!”

“Really? You want a bunch of photos of JC looking spectacularly un-seduced?”

“Oh.” Chris deflates a little. “No, I guess not. JC’s looked that way in pretty much every photo he and I have ever taken together.”

“Ha. Truth.”

“Still.” Chris has started arranging the pineapple slices, securing them to the ham with whole cloves. That was always Lance’s job as a kid. His mother used to call him her little kitchen angel. “Your sister’s husband. Wow. Who knew?”

“Not me.”

“Me neither. It’s a day for self-discovery, I guess.” Chris runs out of cloves, shrugs, and stuffs the last three pineapple slices in his mouth.

Lance snorts, shutting another cabinet door. Napkins, napkins, where did they stash the napkins? No, wait, he probably shouldn’t look so hard. What if he finds them? He’d have to go back out there, and he’s so not ready for that.

“But does he have to discover himself now? Here? In the middle of my lovely Christmas dinner party?”

“Um...the heart wants what the heart wants?”

“Yeah.” Lance snorts. “His _heart_ is attracted to JC. His _heart’s_ what’s been eye-fucking him all evening over a plate of your bacon-wrapped rumaki.”

“Ugh,” Chris groans. “Please, babe. Don’t bring my rumaki into this.”

“I didn’t! _He_ did!”

Lance finally finds the napkins, a whole stack of them, hiding behind some condiment bottles. Dammit. He grabs them, sour-faced. Now he’ll have to find another way to kill time.

Maybe he can shoot it in the face with his dad’s handgun. The one sticking out of his pant leg, plain as day, that he seems to think no one's aware of.

God.

“So,” Chris says, fiddling with the oven dials. “Has your sister noticed? Is there gonna be any wine throwing tonight?”

“Ugh, no, not a chance. She’d much rather throw it than drink it. She’s been buzzed since before the clock struck noon. Just like last Christmas. And the Christmas before that.” Lance fans himself with the napkin stack; it’s hot in here. “I love the bitch, but the truth is, she really is a sad, embarrassing holiday lush. Oh, hey -- look at that!”

He spots a spare bottle of red next to the blender and pounces on it, pouring himself a glass and wondering how many sips it’ll take to erase the memory of Justin, eyes squeezed shut, crooning about how he’s halfway there.

Nope. The answer sure isn’t three. Better take a fourth.

“Yeah,” Chris says slowly, drawing out the word ‘til it’s got four or five syllables. So many vowels. “It’s lucky that’s not the kind of thing that runs in families, don’t you think?”

Chris is leaning against the counter, ham abandoned. He’s watching Lance with his arms crossed and a single eyebrow raised.

Lance looks down at his wine glass, then back at his husband. “Oh, to hell with you. You don’t know. All safe and secluded back here with -- with your _yams_.” He sets the glass down with a little too much force, liquid sloshing everywhere. “At least I have a real excuse.”

The corners of Chris’s mouth are quivering, just a little. He’s trying so hard not to smile at Lance’s plight. Which Lance appreciates, kind of, but also, fuck him. 

“An excuse?” Chris asks.

“Yes! Because -- because hostessing! It’s the worst! It’s worse than...worse than…”

“Hitler?”

“What? No, Chris, what are you even -- ? No. It is not worse than Hitler. God. But it’s awful, Chris. It’s awful and thankless and I hate it.”

Chris is openly snickering at him now. “Aw, but baby! It’s what you were born to do! Why else would God have given you the mostest?”

Lance just shakes his head. “Awful,” he repeats because he needs the last word, needs it like he needs air and water and his favorite label maker, Mr. Label-stein. Then he turns on his heel and storms out the door.

His dramatic exit is ruined a few seconds later when he has to come back for the napkins he forgot. But at least he keeps his head held high.

And he doesn’t acknowledge Chris’s mocking laughter.

Lance pushes through the swinging kitchen door, walks straight over to the only unoccupied bit of counter space and pitches himself onto it, face down, nose pressed to Italian granite. It’s only been twenty minutes since he last set foot in the kitchen, but those twenty minutes have changed him. He’s seen things.

“Bad time at Santa’s village?” Chris asks.

Lance sighs. “Your grandma,” he says without moving. “She keeps kissing her dog on the mouth and I -- I can’t. I just can’t.”

Chris has started on the vegan option, some kind of lentil and berry loaf he found online last night. He’d tried showing Lance some pictures, but Lance couldn’t look at them for long. They made him too depressed. 

“Oh,” Chris says. “Yeah. She loves that little rat monster.”

“Uh-huh. I gathered.” He lifts his head up, just a little, and sighs again. “And your mom definitely thinks I have lousy taste.”

“In husbands? ‘Cos I can kind of see her point there.”

“No. In, like --” He waves his hand around, tiredly. “Decor and shit. She thinks I suck at interior design.”

Chris’s spoon stops moving. “She said that?”

“Of course not. She’d never. She just keeps saying everything looks so ‘nice’.” He interrupts himself with a set of air quotes. Big ones. “Nice!”

“Uh...maybe because it does?”

“Oh, come on. Nice is never a compliment. Grow up, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t answer, just keeps chopping up walnuts and celery. His back is facing Lance, but he’s definitely rolling his eyes. Lance can tell.

“I’m not reading too much into this,” Lance insists. “I’m not. She thinks my taste is sterile and pretentious and --” He sighs and lets his face hit the countertop again, though he at least he has the good sense to turn it to the side this time.

Chris turns around, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Okay, but, like, have you considered: Meh?”

“Meh?”

“Yes. Meh. So what if she does? Chasing people’s approval is a bullshit way to live, Lance. You’re a smart guy. You should know that.”

“I…” Lance turns the concept over in his mind. It’s simple enough to grasp, but -- wow.

“And anyway --” Chris shrugs. “She’s got nothing to be smug about. You’ve been in her house, babe. You’ve sat in her living room. Woman’s never met a ruffly pillow sham she didn’t like.”

“That’s true,” Lance says, slow, cautious. “And the pink gingham. Oh, God. The pink gingham.”

“Yup,” Chris agrees. “Can’t forget about that.”

“Hey! Yeah! You’re totally right!” Lance can feel the smile stretching his face. “Her place looks like the Easter Bunny exploded in there! And then took another eight hours to die!”

“Watch it,” says Chris. “But yes.”

“I feel so much better now!” Lance pushes himself up to a standing position. It’s easy, with the weight from all that ennui no longer crushing his spine. “Thanks, honey! I feel like I can head back out there now!” 

“Godspeed,” says Chris, even giving him a little spatula salute.

If Lance were a woman, this is where he’d readjust his boobs and check his teeth for lipstick before heading back into the fray. Instead, he just walks back through the swinging door, pageant expression firmly in place, the power of right on his side.

The next time Lance sees the inside of the kitchen, it’s through eyes that have just seen hell incarnate. He bursts in, then blockades the entire doorway with his body like he’s trying to protect his husband from a horde of flesh-eating zombies.

“Everyone’s yelling about abortion.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“I don’t know!” Lance shakes his head wildly. He doesn’t need a mirror to tell him his face is a frozen rictus of terror. “I don’t know! Joey asked if anyone had seen the new Star Wars movie and then one thing led to another and -- bam! Abortion!”

Chris is working on the pies now, pouring golden-orange pumpkin goo into a waiting pie crust. They’re store bought, the pie crusts, and frozen, which is technically cheating, but someone’s mom tried to throat-punch Lance at Costco yesterday morning as they tussled over the last of them, so, dammit, everyone’s gonna eat them. They’re gonna eat them and they’re gonna like them. 

“Okay,” Chris says, a little absentmindedly. “So... that’s not good.”

“No shit, Chris! The vein in my dad’s neck is about to pop and JC is about two seconds away from bringing out his guitar and singing a Joan Baez song! How in the hell are you so calm about this?”

Chris reaches for the mixing bowl. “Uh...because I never expected any better?” When Lance just glares, he smiles, sheepish. “Also, Lynn gave me half a xanax about an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Lance slumps a little against the doorframe. “She didn’t offer _me_ anything. That bitch.”

Chris gives him a long, calculating look, then sets down the bowl. “C’mere, baby.” He opens his arms and Lance trudges forward until he’s standing inside them and they’re pressed chest to chest. Chris is warm and solid and the maddening serenity that was driving Lance crazy only moments ago is suddenly a life raft. He clings to it.

Clings to it and just stands there for long minutes, letting himself be held while Chris murmurs soothing nonsense in his ear.

“There, there, baby. There, there. You’re doing such a good job, such an amazing job. It’s not your fault people suck.”

In response, Lance can only grunt and glom harder, trying to burrow even deeper into this man, this perfect man, because maybe if ht can manage it, and maybe if he can keep his eyes squeezed shut long enough, when he finally opens them it’ll be the 26th and everyone will have gone home.

Chris’s hands creep underneath the terrible red and green acrylic sweater Lance’s mom guilted him into wearing. Slow and sure, they rub calm into the line of Lance’s spine in firm, confident strokes.

“You know, it’s still not too late for me to get the hose.” Chris’s voice is as gentle as ever, eyes sincere, and Lance huffs out a laugh even as he’s shaking his head, no, no, thank you but no.

He closes his eyes and pictures Chris hosing down his sober-faced, church-going mom and dad like they’re a pair of horny dogs humping in the street. The image does more to bolster Lance’s spirits than a hit of xanax ever could.

“Alright, whatever you say,” Chris says, and he’s laughing, too, now. Softly, eyes twinkling. “You’re the boss. But the offer still stands. Just for the record.”

His touch on Lance’s back has turned softer, more languid. Lance can feel his heart rate slow down, his forehead start to un-furrow. It’s stifling in here, even hotter than before -- stupid oven -- but that doesn’t do anything to lessen Lance’s burrowing instinct. 

When their mouths meet, it’s wet and dirty, a middle-of-sex kind of kiss, not the kind respectable married people normally share at their respectable married person’s tasteful holiday dinner. 

Even on bad days, Lance still has this, a man who’s not afraid he’ll break, a man who knows when to love and to cherish, and knows when to treat his husband like a cheap truckstop slut. 

The inside of Chris’s mouth tastes tart, like unsugared cranberries. He’s been snacking while he cooks. Lance slides his arms around Chris’s neck and holds on tight, determined to stay upright while Chris sucks bruises into his lower lip.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Lance whispers when they come up for air, still pressed close, mouths touching. “All day long, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve been right here, baby.” Chris doesn’t look calm anymore. His eyes have gone a touch darker, pupils shiny like freshly spilled ink, and his fingers tight-gripping Lance’s waist are just shy of painful. “One room away. Thirty feet, tops.”

“Too far,” Lance gasps, feverish, blindly pulling on Chris’s belt buckle. “Too far.” 

Chris groans and backs himself up against the kitchen counter, Lance following like he has no choice, like he’s being pulled by magnets. There’s the sound of cookware rattling, and something warm and wet lands on Lance’s shoe. Chris is still hard as a rock, which means it’s the rest of the pumpkin goo, it has to be, and it’s fine.

It’s fine. Lance will clean it off later.

Their mouths crash together again, and the timing’s perfect, ‘cos then Chris’s hands are on Lance’s ass, kneading, and all of Lance’s growls and groans get absorbed between them.

Lance can be a noisy bastard when the situation calls for it, and even when it doesn’t, but his in-laws do not need to know that.

Lance still hasn’t made any progress on Chris’s belt, his fingers useless and stupid with want. They scrabble and they yank until finally, something unsnaps and Lance is plunging both hands down the front of Chris’s pants like a greedy kid with a stocking full of treasures and then -- then --

“And that’s why flag burners should be executed by the state!”

They both freeze.

The raised voice, so loud it penetrates the wall dividing the kitchen and the living room, is pissy and belligerent and almost certainly belonging to Lance’s dad.

“Oh, that’s it.” Before Lance can stop him, Chris is zipping up and heading out there, mouth set in a firm line. 

Lance doesn’t follow.

“Okay, alright, okay,” Chris yells, louder than Lance’s dad and aggressively cheerful. He claps a few times to get everyone’s attention. “That is more than enough of that. We’re all gonna have to come together and agree to cool it on the political talk, just for tonight. Holiday moratorium. Capisce?”

Lance wishes he could see his dad’s face right now. He’d bet anything this is the first time in his life the man’s ever been asked to capisce. 

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” Chris continues. “Unless anyone in this room has burned a flag -- and I mean, like, _today_ \-- we’re all gonna stop this now. How about you, Grandma Betty? Have you burned an American flag in the past twenty four hours?”

Lance can’t hear Grandma Betty’s answer.

“No? Okay, good, ‘cos you were the only one here I was actually worried about.”

And then Lance has to remove his ear from the kitchen door and scurry to one side because Chris is marching back in, manly, purposeful strides, eyes blazing with purpose.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and whether it’s to himself, or meant for Lance to hear, Lance has no idea. “Fuck it. I know how to fix this.”

He heads straight to the fridge, grabs a fresh carton of milk, and gets to work whipping up a fresh batch of eggnog. He looks like a mad scientist, whipping and folding with wild, theatrical arm movements. All Lance can do is stand there and watch. 

When he’s done, he mixes in enough booze to satisfy a ship full of pirates. “Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of rum,” he singsongs, tossing the empty bottle into the trash. Then he portions it out into glasses, arranges the glasses on a tray, and takes a step back, arms akimbo, to admire his handiwork.

“There,” he tells Lance. “Make sure everyone gets one of those. Even the children. It’s time they learn what Christmas is really all about: puking into a Santa hat while your whole family watches.”

He looks up at Lance, pleased with himself, but whatever he sees on Lance’s face stops him cold.

“Lance?” Chris walks over and cups Lance’s face in his hands. “You still with me, buddy? You okay?”

Lance wants to tell him he’s not shell-shocked, not brittle with tension. Not anymore. That it’s not horror or hosting fatigue that’s made him go blank and wide-eyed. 

It’s love. 

And gratitude. 

And the fact that his dick is still semi-hard, which, honestly, is making it tough for him to focus on his parents and their specific brand of stark raving patriotism.

He didn’t go to Midnight Mass last night, but he half listened to the live broadcast from St. Patrick’s while he wrapped gifts and put the finishing touches on the tree. The word ‘savior’ got tossed around a bunch, and Lance had a proper Christian upbringing, he did, his mama saw to that, but right now? In this moment? 

There’s only one bearded guy to whom that word applies.

And Lance is gonna be worshipping him. Tonight. Probably on his knees.

He opens his mouth to say that out loud, but then Chris is kissing him, sweet and leisurely, and the thought shrinks, fades in importance ‘til it’s gone, gone to wherever it is that unsexy thoughts go when Chris’s mouth is on his.

They break apart, and Chris rests his forehead against Lance’s. “We’ll get through tonight,” he says. “We will. And then next year? We’ll do something totally different. Something just for us. We’ll…” He pauses, thinking, and Lance knows that look. The man’s got nothing. He’s about to pull some nonsense out of his ass. “We’ll go to Hawaii!”

“Hawaii?” Lance asks, wrinkling his nose. “At Christmas?”

“Sure, why not? It’ll be great.”

“It’ll be hot.”

“So?”

“So I’ll get a sunburn.”

“You won’t! I’ll shield you with my entire body. I will sacrifice myself upon that altar. I’ll lay on top of you all day every day and that is a promise. C'mon. Say yes.”

It’s not a bad offer, Lance’ll give him that. “Okay, maybe,” he concedes. “Maybe that could be fun.”

“Hell, yes! Hell, yes, it could! Just picture it: the sand, the quiet, your tanned ass in a speedo. My tanned ass _not_ in a speedo.”

“Hmm…” Lance pretends to mull it over for a minute, but it’s hard when he can’t stop smiling. “Okay. Next year. Hawaii. I’m in.”

Chris pumps his arm in victory as Lance extricates himself and walks over to the tray of eggnog. He picks it up, checks to make sure it’s level and that he isn’t about to spill, and then turns and beams at his husband, all innocence and light.

“I mean, unless we have a baby by then.”

Now Chris is the one spluttering and panicking. “Unless we _what_? Have a _what_? Lance, get back here! Lance? Lance!”

He reaches out to snatch at Lance’s arm, but it’s too late. Lance is leaving the kitchen, gone to ply his family and closest friends with face-numbing amounts of alcohol. And if he’s wearing one of his evilest smiles as he does it?

Well, no one’ll notice. Probably.


End file.
